Not Sew Easy

At only two days into my time of unemployment leisure, my husband has lost his mind.  He has forgotten to whom he is betrothed. Granted, my first name is Laura, but he has apparently mistaken my last name for "Ingalls Wilder" and thinks we live in a little house, waaaaay out on the prairie.  Last night he asked me if I could hem up his Page football slacks (Incidentally, when doofus Burdie met John Isner at the Winston Salem Open, the only words that doofus Burdie could manage were, "my husband coaches for Page".  Nice and classy, eh?).  I failed to realize that Manute Bol was on the sidelines for the Pirates, as he is the only person (other than Isner) who these pants could possibly fit with no alteration.  J stands 6'1" and I was faced with the task of hemming them up 8 inches.

I lied the other day when I said the only trait I share with my mother is the willingness to drive 2 hours for a really good haircut.  I learned from the best as I listened to her preach "I don't care what I have to pay someone else to do it.  I'm not sewing a blessed thing," when faced with the prospect of having to make dancing costumes years ago.  We don't craft.  We aren't artsy.  And most importantly, we don't sew.

My poor, abandoned sewing machine had the same patina of dust that my poor abandoned Buns of Steel videos do.  I  launched my lungs into a full blown asthma attack by inhaling it all.  Then again, I am out of shape and the hard breathing could have been due to the exertion of the excavation process of the machine.  I quickly realized that although I had taken approximately 3 sewing classes, none of them dealt with hemming, especially the kind of blindstitch hemming that these pants would need.  Not only that, but the manual which came with the sewing machine was buried in the avalanche zone of the playroom, currently reduced to rubble, courtesy of the ongoing Great Redecorating of the downstairs.  The mighty Casey was about to strike out.

I have never been one to allow lack of knowledge or any semblance of ability hinder me from plunging headlong into something I have no concept of how to actually do.  Necessity has made me a quick learner, but today I was stuck in remedial mode.  I won't go into details of what I did (heck, I couldn't recreate it if I had to).  The important thing is that I prove, without a shadow of a doubt, I am not a crafter.  If there was an anti crafters anonymous, I would be the first to stand and say "Hello.  My name is Burdie and I am NOT a crafter" and then go enjoy the refreshments.

Before--at least I look capable.  I had butterfly pins, even!

After.  I have effectively removed any fear that people will ask me for sewing favors.

My blindstitch was more like Braille.  Even a seeing eye dog could tell I'd screwed it up.  I also scorched the bottom of one of the legs, just for added effect.  I spent 2 hours of my unemployment leisure to get it this botched.  I may have sewn it badly, but I sewed it badly, very well.  That line of stitches ain't gonna budge.  He's gotta wear that crap for a whole season'; his own personal red badge of courage.

I met J for lunch and took him these pants.  His take on it?  "It's better than duct tape".  Yup.  He summed it up very succinctly.  That's my crafting ability.  Better than duct tape.

For my afternoon fun, I think I'm going to beat some clothes on a rock or make candles from the tallow kept in our larder.